Only In Our Dreams Can We Truly Be Free
by Blackbirdox
Summary: Arthur just doesn't have the heart to tell her it's not her face he dreams about. Arthur/Eames


**Disclaimer: I, sadly, still lack the rights to Inception just like I still lack the rights to Arthur. Hmph.**

**A/N: I really appreciated all the feedback I got for my last Arthur/Eames fic so I was eager to write another. Personally, I'm pretty pleased with how it turned out so I hope you guys enjoy it as much as I do. **

The question is simple enough- expected, really; and not just because it's coming from someone who seems to be naturally curious about everything. It's something that everyone happens to wonder about someone else at some point in time and Arthur is actually surprised that Ariadne takes so long to ask.

_What do you dream about?_

His answer is just as simple. Calculated. Clipped.

_I don't._

Too many years on the job, he tells her. He says he's lost the ability and tries to make it seem believable with a disheartened little shrug. She responds with a frown and he knows then that her blind faith and trust in him are allowing him to get away with his lie and that makes his stomach churn with guilt.

Because as much as he'd like to be able to answer her honestly, Arthur can't.

He can't bring himself to tell her that he does in fact dream or that the things he dreams about are the things of nightmares- haunting and vivid and painful memories that he struggles to keep repressed in the depths of his subconscious.

It's easier to pretend that when his eyelids grow heavy and droop and his vision clouds and his limbs grow limp that his mind goes just blank but of course it doesn't.

And when Ariadne finds him jolted awake, sweaty and tangled up in a mess of limbs and sheets, it's easier to say that he was just restless- tossing and turning and unable to get comfortable- and that she shouldn't worry and should just go back to sleep.

The lies continue pile up on a daily basis but no matter how much he wants to tell her the truth and no matter how hard he tries to spit it out, he just can't do it.

He just doesn't have the heart to tell her that it's not her face he dreams about.

It's not her soft and silky hair that he runs his fingers through because hers is too long and entirely the wrong shade of brown.

It's not her voice that echoes through his head because his name doesn't sound right when it rolls off her tongue because it lacks the proper accent.

It's not her lips he feels on his because hers are soft and gentle rather than rough and chapped.

It's not her skin that he nuzzles his nose against because she smells like flowers rather than musky aftershave.

It's not her that he imagines making love to because every little sigh and gasp and moan she makes are wrong- everything about it is just _wrong_.

Arthur tries to tell himself that he made the right decision but his brain and his heart seem to have two totally different definitions of right. That day in the airport, he was presented with a choice- a proverbial fork in the road with Ariadne on one side and Eames on the other; his heart and his brain pulling him in two different directions.

And Arthur had chosen to listen to his brain.

Ariadne could make him happy, he'd reasoned, because she was what was supposed to make him happy.

And in a way, she does. She's bright and beautiful and she's similar to him and he supposes that in some ways, he loves her, because she's stable and she doesn't come in and out of his life like a tide. There's never any second guessing with her because everything just flows in one comfortable rhythm and she's devoted which is something that Eames could never give him.

But then again, there were a lot of things that Eames could have given him that she can't.

And they always, always trump the things that she can.

He supposes that the dreams are like payback in a way- one big fuck you to the part of him that made that decision that day.

Arthur knew he was choosing wrong and yet he did it anyway. And now? Now he's being taunted for it.

He always feared the thought of never being able to dream again but as he wakes from a sound sleep with a whisper of Eames' name on his lips; he can't help but wonder if it would really be that bad.


End file.
